Crossing Lines Chapter 63

**Aiden**

The weekend after that goddamn party, I swore I’d prove a point—Noah couldn’t flirt his way into everything, especially not into my bed. But Jesus Christ, not fucking him that night had damn near killed me. I’d never wanted anyone the way I wanted him then. Every rule in me was a frayed wire, sparking.

Then came the nipple piercing. A common edgy practice to “brand” your sub. Others used tattoos, or worse, during the trial period, as a test of commitment, a seal of mastery on a submissive… I decided to go mild. A fun ornament, a challenge, and in our current situation, my brilliant idea to remind him that parading our private life wasn’t an option. Except the next day at practice, I nearly had a coronary when I saw the faint outline under his compression shirt. He wore it like a goddamn badge of honor. I ended up throwing a spare tee at his chest before the whole team got an eyeful. This boy’s stubbornness was going to bury me.

Did he not understand the one boundary we couldn’t cross?

From there, keeping my distance turned into a full-time job—and I was so fucking unqualified for it. Every line I drew, he walked right up to, then looked at me like he’d found his new favorite place to stand.

By midweek he showed up at my door with a grocery bag and that grin that made me want to ground him for life.

“Don’t worry, Sir. I want to redeem myself. Yesterday’s dinner was a crime scene, I know. Tonight? I’m going to feed you something that won’t require first responders.”

“You’re not turning my kitchen into a training facility.”

“Too late,” he said, as I took the bag from his hands before he broke every rule. “I’m gonna impress you, Sir.”

Honest to God, the second he stripped with that bright, cocky smile and padded off—obedient, practiced—to prepare my drink and put on music, I was already impressed. By his body, sure. By that tempting grin and the sway of his hips that made “domestic” look like sin itself. But mostly, I was impressed by myself—for not tackling him before he even touched a pan.

He cooked with the same intensity he played football—measured, timed, laser-focused. Garlic hit the butter, and the house smelled like heaven instead of hell for once.

“You read a recipe,” I said.

“Three. Plus two videos. And one rant thread from some lunatic called *SpatulaDaddy* who’s now my mortal enemy.”

I smirked despite myself. “Remind me to block your browser.”

“After I wow you.”

He plated chicken piccata like we had the mayor over. I took a bite, ready to lie. I didn’t have to.

“Not bad,” I said, which from me might as well have been fireworks.

He exhaled, then grinned so wide it made something in my chest feel stupidly light. “Not bad, like… not terrible, or not bad as in good?” he asked.

“Come here.” When he crawled closer, I placed a piece of chicken in his mouth.

He closed his eyes with a little moan, savoring the bite. “This is good.”

And just watching him like that—eyes closed, lips parted—made me wish those sounds were coming from my cock in his mouth instead.

Which, honestly, they usually did. He was getting so damn good at sucking me that I rarely sent him home without using that mouth. Sometimes I let him stroke himself while he did it. Sometimes—if he’d been particularly good—I stroked him myself or fingered his ass in the shower. He’d fall apart so beautifully I wanted to ruin him every time.

I craved him—his presence, his attention, his touch—almost as much as I feared them. Because they were becoming a drug.

When I turned back to my meal, Noah was already kneeling at my feet, head resting on my thigh like he belonged there. Instinct made me thread my fingers through his hair. Before I knew it, his lips were brushing against my groin, and I was seconds from dragging him up and devouring his mouth.

Fuck.

I pushed the urge down, the same way I pushed him away when it came to real feelings. And yet day after day, he was still there—submitting, learning, spilling his every thought and emotion into my hands. Happier. More confident. And every damn day he tried to crawl his way even deeper—into my bed, onto my lips, and dangerously close to my heart.

I told myself I was rejecting romance, but I was giving him everything else: my time, my discipline, and my entire world. And he still looked at me like he couldn’t have enough.

The closer we got, the needier he became. And I loved that need so fucking much that I did nothing to stop it. He rejected every party invite, every outing, and every girl’s advance at our public practices, like they didn’t exist. All he craved was me. And God help me, I craved him right back…. But even then, boundaries remained. 

One night, after a session that should’ve drained him, he curled into me instead of moving away. His face in the crook of my neck, his breath hot against my skin.

I closed my eyes for just a second, letting myself sink into it—into him—until his lips brushed my jaw. Then my chin. My ear. And then—fuck me—his mouth was on mine.

I knew the second I let this happen—this kind of intimacy, soft kisses that didn’t necessarily lead to sex but to something far more dangerous—there’d be no coming back.

And yet, when Noah trembled against me as our lips met—a small moan escaping like it had broken free from somewhere deep inside him—every wall I’d built between us crumbled in that instant.

I shut my eyes harder, gave in, even cupped the back of his neck to pull him closer… *Shit, shit…*

And that was when I heard the doorbell.

Fuck.

I shoved him off, scrambling to pull myself together. “Go to the bedroom. Stay there.”

When I opened the door, I nearly swallowed my tongue. Keon. Hands shoved in his pockets, face serious as hell.

“Coach, sorry—hope I’m not interrupting.”

“No, it’s fine.” I lied like a man with a landmine under his couch. “What’s up?”

He shifted. “It’s about Noah.”

My heart stuttered. Sweat ran cold down my back. “What about him?”

“He’s been… off lately. Withdrawn. Secretive. Always rushing out after practice, never tells us where, and—well, he’s always avoiding sharing showers or changing around us. The guys are worried. I think he could be… self-harming, maybe? Or involved in something… not good.”

My chest tightened. “I’ll check in on him,” I said carefully. Too carefully.

“I wanna help if he’s in trouble. But he won’t answer my texts, won’t hang out anymore. I thought maybe you could…”

“He’s probably just homesick or has some family stuff… Or he could just be dating some girl. But I’ll reach out. Appreciate you telling me.”

Keon nodded, turning to go. Then his eyes snagged on the side yard.

“Hey… Isn’t that Noah’s bike?”

Ice water poured down my spine. My mouth went dry. I froze.

Keon frowned at me. “What’s going on, Coach?”

And just like that, I realized how easy it was to lose everything.